


Something New

by alysanne



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Shadow of the Tower
Genre: F/M, First Time, Handfasting, Secret Wedding, my lord (intimate)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29714733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alysanne/pseuds/alysanne
Summary: December, 1485. Elizabeth receives word that Henry has confirmed to Parliament that he will honour the vow he made nearly two years past and take her as his wife.That does not surprise her. What happens next does.
Relationships: Elizabeth of York Queen of England/Henry VII of England
Kudos: 18





	Something New

In the midst of Advent, as Christmastide rapidly approaches and frost begins to cover the ground of a morning, Elizabeth receives word that Henry has confirmed to Parliament that he will honour the vow he made in Rennes cathedral nearly two years past and take her as his wife.

That does not surprise her. What happens next does.

"We are to exchange vows _now_?" Elizabeth repeats to her mother as they stroll arm-in-arm through the gardens, their heavy cloaks shielding them from the worst of the winter chill. "The wedding is planned for next month, I was led to believe."

She tries to conceal her disappointment. She does not want to sound like a petulant girl dreaming of a grand wedding feast and a fine new gown, for it is not that. It is necessary, all the grandeur, for the legitimacy of their union, for Lancaster and York to become one. She does not want to be treated like a secret; a loose end that her husband-to-be must tie off.

"I think you misunderstand me, Bess," says Elizabeth Woodville. "The king must still have his public wedding. This will be simply...a handfasting ceremony. A pledge between yourselves."

"Is that how you and my father the king were married?" asks Elizabeth. She smirks, and pulls her mother close, and coaxes a smile from her too. It gladdens her heart; such occurrences are few and far between these days.

"It is how a great many people are married," her mother responds, the ghost of a reminiscent smile still on her face. "The new king has requested another papal dispensation. But in the meantime, he wants to do all he can to ensure the security of your union."

A particularly strong gust of wind whirls in under Elizabeth's cloak and skirts, and she shivers. Lately, she has been learning to listen not only to what her mother tells her, but what she does _not_ say. She hears the omission, and knows what it means for her.

***

Ever since Elizabeth returned to London, Henry has been visiting her, using his mother's rooms and gardens at Coldharbour to conduct a private courtship. There, amongst Lady Margaret's well-manicured rosebushes and hedges, Elizabeth can almost imagine that their statuses of king and princess have been washed away, and all that is left is a young man and woman tentatively trying to get to know one another. And Elizabeth has decided that she can like Henry, as a man. When they walk, they speak of music and literature and he does not speak to her like a child. He smiles readily in conversation; sometimes he even laughs. Sometimes it is because she has made him laugh, and the pleasure she feels at his response surprises her.

But then his mind returns to the matter of ruling (and it must be his train of thought, for Elizabeth would never dare to broach such matters when things are still so new), and his eyes darken, and his mouth loses any trace of a smile.

It is the king she must marry, not the man.

The ceremony itself is small. Elizabeth's mother, Henry’s mother, the duke of Bedford, Bishop Morton - and of course, the bride and groom. Elizabeth cannot help but feel outnumbered.

And all they have to do is clasp one another's hands and say the words.

_I take you for my husband._

_I take you for my wife._

When they do so Henry intertwines his fingers with hers, his grip tight and firm. Elizabeth looks up at him. This is, as her mother says, how many of their subjects are married: a man and a woman standing face-to-face, holding hands, reciting a vow both ancient and new. Without ink put to paper, without the eyes of a congregation upon them, all they can rely upon is the word of their witnesses, and each other. For a great many people, that has to be enough.

Henry's eyes have shadowed over again. He looks neither pleased nor disappointed.

"There," says Bishop Morton, clapping his hands together and stepping forward. "It is done."

***

Back in her rooms, Elizabeth sits with her mother, side-by-side on the bed, clutching one another's hands too tightly.

"The king wishes to see you," Elizabeth's mother explains. "Tonight. Alone."

"Will I have someone waiting on me?" Elizabeth asks. She thinks, somewhat ashamed of herself, _please not you, or Cecily,_ for she knows she would cling to them as the moment approached, beg them not to leave her alone with him. This is not something she can share with them.

"One of Lady Margaret's girls," says her mother. "She will be discreet."

Yes, but that discretion comes on Lady Margaret's terms, or his. Elizabeth has heard of blood-stained bedsheets being publicly shown with a flourish after the night of a wedding. There will be no such display for her and Henry, and she is glad of it. In this way, she is being afforded a modicum of privacy, even if that is because it is what the king wants.

"Bess," her mother is saying now, leaning in close, "how much do you know of what happens between a man and wife?"

Elizabeth swallows. She thinks of a day, nearly five years past now, when she had been allowed to accompany her father and some of his men out hunting. At the time, dressed in a thick velvet gown and cloak, riding side-saddle alongside her father, she had felt so grown up. Thinking back on it, she suspects he was trying to prepare her for the sorts of entertainments that might be lavished upon her if she were to marry the French dauphin. As they'd advanced on foot through the forest, Lord Hastings, just ahead, had held up a hand and whispered _Hush now, take a look at this._ He'd peeled a branch away from a pine tree and, in the clearing beyond, a braying buck was mounting a doe. Elizabeth, peering over the men's shoulders, had been more fascinated than disturbed. Hastings had shot a sly look at her father. _Shall we disturb their wedding celebrations?_ he'd asked, a roguish grin splitting his coarse beard. Elizabeth suspected her father was about to respond with something even more ribald, but then he'd spotted her out of the corner of his eye and said, in a voice using shock to disguise shame, _By the saints, Hastings, have a care how you speak in front of my Bessie._

She decides not to repeat this story to her mother. "I think I have some understanding of it," she admits.

"You then know that he will put his member inside you, between your legs? You need to know the truth of it," Elizabeth Woodville added, noting how pale her daughter's face had gone. "I will not have any of my daughters go unprepared to their marriage beds. You least of all. You need to be ready, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth looks down at her mother's hands, entangled with hers, still so fine and unblemished. She thinks: _it is you who ought to be queen still, not me._ She removes her hands from her mother's grasp and lays them flat in her lap. "I _am_ ready." An image comes to her of Henry stepping towards her in his nightshirt, and her heart jolts - surely indulging in such a vision is sinful indeed. "Will it hurt?" she asks.

"At first it will, yes," says her mother.

"And then after?"

Her mother forms an expression that is somewhere between a smile and a frown. "That depends on the man," she says carefully.

 _How does it depend on the man,_ wonders Elizabeth, _when it is the woman's body - my body - that will feel pain?_ But then she notes the wistful tone to her mother's voice, and realises she has been offered a small window into her parents' marriage. It disquiets her - she has been raised to read and write and play and sing and ride but she knows so little of the private world of men and women.

"Are you afraid?" her mother asks.

Elizabeth nods. Tears come to her eyes; she presses her lips together and wills them to retreat.

"Of him?"

She considers the question for a moment. "He hasn't given me reason to be," she says slowly. "But then again, he hasn't given me reason not to be."

***

Now, she is alone. Her mother has farewelled her with a kiss on the forehead and a murmured blessing, and Elizabeth is alone. She does not know how long she will have to wait.

Lady Margaret's girl - Joan Vaux, from a family of staunch Lancastrians - stands before her expectantly. Elizabeth knows she shouldn't really call her _the girl,_ for she's a little older than Elizabeth herself, and has a shrewd look to her eye that suggests she's wiser, too.

"Is there anything you need, my lady?" she asks, hands clasped obediently over her apron.

_For tomorrow morning to be here, and for this to be over and done with._

"A basin of water so I may wash, please," Elizabeth hears herself say.

Joan returns with a basin and cloth. There are lavender buds floating atop the water; Elizabeth wonders if Joan picked them herself. She helps Elizabeth out of her kirtle and, standing before the basin in her chemise, Elizabeth washes herself: behind her neck, under her arms and breasts, between her legs. The linen cap covering her hair has come loose; Joan steps forward and adjusts it, tightening the bow at the nape of Elizabeth's neck.

"Will that be all?"

Elizabeth nods quickly.

Joan watches her closely for a moment. "I will be in the antechamber," she says cautiously. "When - when His Grace comes in, I can knock. So that you will - "

"Yes," Elizabeth interrupts, perhaps a little too gratefully. "Yes, please. Thank you, Joan."

Joan's heels are swift on the floor as she departs. Elizabeth watches her leave and vows to herself to remember this, to thank God for people like Joan Vaux.

With a deliberately slow pace, Elizabeth walks over to the other side of the room. Her prayer book is on the table. She holds it in her hands, runs her fingers over the embossed cover, opens it to the page where she has written her name: _Elizabeth Plantagenet._ This book is a relic of the time not long ago when she was not a king's wife or a princess, but a bastard, and had no other title to give herself. There are things she has written on other pages in other books that speak to that time as well: _loyaulte me lie, sans removyr, Elizabeth._ She was trying on different mottos, different identities like they were ill-fitting dresses. She had been so muddled.

 _Mother Mary_ , she thinks, _please steady me on the path that has been laid out for me. Please help me to believe that it is leading me in the right direction._

By the time Joan Vaux raps her warning knock, it is dark. Elizabeth stands, moves away from the fire, and smooths down the front of her chemise.

Henry stoops slightly as he steps through the door. When she'd first laid eyes upon him, Elizabeth had been surprised at how tall he was - not as tall as her father, but taller than most men. Joan follows him, bearing a tray with a flagon of wine and two cups. She lowers it onto the table, next to Elizabeth's prayer book. Their eyes meet over Henry's shoulder before she turns away.

"Elizabeth," Henry says, once they are alone.

She feels silly making a curtsey in her stockinged feet. "My lord."

Henry steps closer. Like her, he is dressed for bed: although over his nightgown, he wears a dark robe with a furred trim. "We're alone now," he says - as if she needed reminding. "I would much prefer it if you used my name in private company."

"Very well." Elizabeth swallows. "Henry." She tries to put a smile into her voice.

He smiles too, although there is a strained quality to his features. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

"No, not at all."

"Would you - would you like something to drink?" Henry gestures towards the table, and as he does it Elizabeth realises: he's nervous. What right does he have to be nervous? It almost makes her angry. It certainly doesn't calm her.

"No, my lord."

She thinks of him leading her around the gardens at Coldharbour, speaking with confidence of the future: _when we are married._ Well, now they have arrived at the future he had so long envisaged. They have pledged themselves to one another, and they are about to lay together as man and wife. He can petition the Pope for as many dispensations as he likes but it is this act that will render their bond truly indissoluble. So why does he prevaricate?

Elizabeth sits down on the bed, folds her hands in her lap, and waits.

Henry looks down at her, taken aback. He blinks a few times and opens his mouth as if to speak. "You - you understand why it is that I've come here in this manner?"

"Yes, my lord. Henry. My mother made me aware of it."

"I see."

"I would prefer it if," Elizabeth continues, surprised at her sudden boldness, "now that we are husband and wife, that you would speak to me directly about such matters."

Henry nods.

"My mother is not to be used as a go-between."

"Yes," Henry says, nodding again. She thinks she can see approval in his gaze, but it could just be the way the firelight plays upon his eyes. He removes his robe, folds it neatly over the back of the chair, and sits on the bed beside her.

First, he takes her hand in his. His fingers are cold, but not unpleasantly so. Earlier today, when they'd vowed to take each other as husband and wife, he'd grasped her hands with firmness, with clarity of purpose. Now, his touch is lighter, questioning, deliberating how to proceed.

Elizabeth can feel her pulse beating in her throat; and as if her thoughts have made that plain, Henry reaches up and touches his fingertips to the spot. Instinctively, she shies back, and then curses herself: she cannot let him see her fear.

"I won't hurt you, Elizabeth," he says, his voice almost wounded.

"I know," she says, managing to keep her own steady.

"Could you remove your cap, please?"

"My - my cap?" Elizabeth has dressed as she does for bed, and it is a cold night: her cap comes down over the tips of her ears and keeps her head warm. She never suspected that it would be in the way.

"May I?" Henry asks, but his fingers are already loosening the knot at the nape of her neck that Joan had tied earlier. He's gentle as he eases the fabric away from her head, and Elizabeth spots yet another facet of his meticulous personality when he folds it and places it on the nearby table. Her hair has been plaited into two braids, and Henry takes it upon himself to unwork them, allowing the locks of hair to fall into loose curls over her shoulder.

"It's an odd coupling," he says, almost to himself. "Most people with this sort of hair colour have blue eyes."

A flush creeps up Elizabeth's chest and into her cheeks. She has inherited her mother’s golden hair, and her brown eyes too. In the flickering light of the fire, it shines red, mimicking the warmth of the flames.

"I have - " he starts, and then breaks off, with a smile that could almost be branded foolish. Elizabeth meets his gaze, as if to say, _no, continue._ "I have watched you, with your hood or your cap on, and seen glimpses of your hair underneath. And I - I longed to see what you looked like with your hair uncovered."

Elizabeth closes her eyes; she can feel him there, his warmth, his scent, his presence, and knows they are standing on the precipice. "Well, now you have," she says.

Henry's hand moves from her hair to her jaw, guides her face to his own, and he kisses her. It is not the first kiss they have shared - they occasionally exchanged chaste kisses in the garden at Coldharbour when nobody was watching - but this one is different. Elizabeth can taste wine on Henry as he pushes his tongue into her mouth. He's certainly not drunk but she wonders if he has been trying to steady his nerves. He guides her onto her back so that she may lie against the pillows, loosens her garters and removes her stockings - and then his body is flush against hers.

Elizabeth remembers when they first met, at either end of Coldharbour's great hall, raising their voices to call out polite formalities; it seems impossible that his tongue is in her mouth and his body moves against hers. But then she reminds herself of a time, only a few weeks prior, when Lady Margaret had procured a lute from somewhere and urged her to play. Elizabeth's mother and sister had also been in the room, but it was Henry who sat across from her, by the fire, and watched her as her face burned and she struggled not to play a wrong note. The others had politely applauded; he had simply regarded her over the rim of his glass, and he did not look away, not even after the lute had been taken away and the conversation resumed.

"Look at me," Henry says suddenly. His voice is low and rough, a register Elizabeth has never heard from him before. She opens her eyes and sees his own, a few inches from her face, his brow furrowed in what looks like pain but she knows is something altogether different. He has not removed her chemise or his own but braces himself above her with a hand on her hip. His other hand, Elizabeth sees, has reached under the long hem of his nightshirt, readying himself with methodical strokes.

Elizabeth meets his gaze and nods.

She does not cry out when he enters her, although she wants to. She can feel herself burning and tearing; it is as if he is trying to make space for himself where there is none. Is this truly such a sin? There does not seem to be any pleasurable aspect to the deed at all.

But for the man - for Henry - she realises it must be otherwise. His eyelids flutter closed of their own volition and he presses his face to her neck, breathing in her scent. He manages to look down at her, his arms and shoulders trembling with the effort of holding himself back. "Am I hurting you?"

She decides to be at least partially honest. "Only a little bit."

There will be blood, of that much she is certain, but how much? When this is all over, who will strip the bed of its sheets and ensure they are discreetly taken care of? Down in the laundry, will the washerwomen see the stains and know instantly what they are, who they belong to? Is there truly anyone in this palace - her birthplace, the place that was once her home - she can trust?

All of it - the pledging ceremony, the agonising waiting, the nature of their consummation - all of it is a reminder of the power Henry holds over her. It is what he chooses to do with that power, Elizabeth realises, that will determine what the rest of her life will look like.

But a second realisation comes to Elizabeth as she forces her mind to cease prattling: there is more to this than the tolerance of pain. She places a hand in Henry's thin chin-length hair and returns his kisses, although they grow less frequent now as he pauses for breath, and allows herself to savour the feeling of his hands on her skin, as they roam under her shift and explore the curves of her belly and breasts. It hurts less now their bodies seem to have found a natural rhythm.

She senses what is coming without truly knowing what it will be. Henry lengthens his thrusts, pushing deeper inside her, and she gasps, not from the pain but from the sensation. He buries his face in the hair he'd unbound earlier, and Elizabeth feels his whole body shudder: against her and inside her. She turns her head to look at him, his face flushed and half-hidden by her hair. He is breathing heavily, trying to regain his composure, and she is fascinated by what she has wrought upon him: a certain kind of undoing.

"I trust that was not too unpleasant for you," he says once he has caught his breath.

"No," says Elizabeth. "Thank you for - " She hesitates. Thank you for _what_? For being gentle? For being kind? Neither words seem to fit what has just happened between them.

Henry clambers off her and Elizabeth feels the absence of him instantly; the mixture of her blood and his spend beginning to chill on the skin of her inner thighs. Once again she can sense the hesitation in him: whether he should lay beside her a minute longer or take his leave lest someone who is not privy to their arrangement discover them. He climbs off the bed and pours a cup of wine.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks.

"Yes, please," says Elizabeth. She does not know if she should yet rise, if it would ruin her chances of conception. That is one thing her mother did not mention to her, but she knows that the sooner the king has an heir in the cradle, the safer they all will be. "Might it help if I lie like this for a little while longer? In the hope that - "

"Oh," Henry says uncertainly. "Yes, I suppose it might."

He sits down on the mattress beside her and offers her a cup. Elizabeth props herself up on her elbow and takes a mouthful, the effects of the spiced wine spreading through her body and warming her. Henry is looking at her, at her rumpled hair and flushed cheeks, and she does not know what he is thinking.

"Would you like some?" she asks quickly, holding out the cup. He had only poured one.

Henry continues staring at her for a moment, and then he starts, as if only realising Elizabeth is speaking to him. He takes the cup and slowly raises it to his mouth, to the exact spot her lips were just before. He does not take his gaze from her as he drinks and Elizabeth feels a shiver at the base of her spine.

After replacing the cup back on its tray, Henry resumes his position and takes Elizabeth's hand. His palm is cold, but pressed against hers, it soon warms. Elizabeth listens to the low crackling of the fire and waits for him to speak.

"I intend to be a good husband to you, Elizabeth," he says, the words measured and perhaps premeditated. Elizabeth does not mind this: it does not mean they are insincere. "And I expect you to be a good wife to me in return. I needn't give you a long sermon on loyalty. You are far too intelligent to be subjected to that."

Elizabeth keeps her face deliberately expressionless. There are goosebumps on her skin again, but not for the reason they had risen before. Another woman might fall to her knees and vow neverending loyalty; another woman still might retaliate, accuse Henry of unnecessary suspicion and chastise him for bringing such discussion to the marital bed. But Elizabeth knows that the questions of loyalty and trust and honesty will always be close to them. Too close for comfort, perhaps, but nevertheless bound into their vows alongside obedience and honour - and love.

"I have pledged myself to you," she says simply. "My lord."

Henry's mouth falls open. Elizabeth suspects he is deliberating whether to pursue out loud the questions that are running through his head, and to halt him she says, "I'm cold," and rises to collect the red woollen stockings that Henry had discarded on the floor earlier.

"Allow me," he says suddenly. He gestures for Elizabeth to sit. Kneeling before her, he takes her ankle in his hand and eases her stocking over her foot, along her calf and up and over the knee. His fingers slip under the hem of her chemise and rest on the soft skin of her thigh for a moment, making the fine hairs on her leg rise. Then, he picks up her garter from the floor and, with remarkable deftness, fastens it just below the knee.

"Is that too tight?" he asks, his voice huskier than it had ever been mid-coitus. His head is almost, but not quite, resting upon her thigh.

"No," Elizabeth manages. "It's perfect."

She sits there with her face burning and her heart racing as he repeats the process on her right leg.

"I must go now," he says afterwards, hurriedly fastening his robe about his waist. "One of my mother's girls - Mistress Vaux or another - will change your linen. You can be assured that they have been instructed to behave with the utmost discretion."

"I am very grateful for it," says Elizabeth. She wraps her arms around her chest: although she is no longer cold her nipples are still peaked, obvious underneath her thin chemise.

"I am sorry I cannot stay longer," says Henry.

"There'll be time for that," says Elizabeth. She offers up a small smile.

"Yes," says Henry, smiling faintly in return. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Will you accompany me to Mass in the morning?"

"Of course."

"Good," he says. He is still smiling. She can almost, if she wants to – and she thinks she does – read it as the smile of a relieved suitor. "Sleep well, Elizabeth."

He stoops to kiss her, just once, his hand caressing her hair, and then he leaves, his stockinged feet padding on the floor.

Elizabeth lets out a breath she did not know she was holding. She blinks heavily and rubs her eyes, trying to recover her senses: although, of course, they have not disappeared, just altered. She rises, and turns, inspecting both the back of her chemise and the bedsheets. She had thought she would bleed more. She had thought it would be worse. All that has happened here, tonight, in this room, and two twin splotches of blood are all that shows of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Although many historians raise the possibility of Elizabeth and Henry pre-empting their marital vows (hence Arthur being born eight months after the wedding), this isn't the interpretation of The Shadow of the Tower. I hope you'll forgive the tag anyway, given that this is mostly a tribute to "I think you know falsehood when you see it", a line that will forever live rent-free in my head.


End file.
